Expeditions on the Nile
by rambling procrastinator
Summary: Albus Severus Potter doesn't know it, but the Sorting Hat is to blame for the events of a significant portion of his life. It's a sly, old hat after all. Sometimes, though, he suspects the fault might lie with Scorpius. Oneshot; complete.


**Title:** Expeditions on the Nile

**Warnings:** spoilers for DH epilogue, slash, a wee bit of het

**Summary:** Albus Severus Potter doesn't know it, but the Sorting Hat is to blame for the events of a significant portion of his life. It's a sly, old hat after all. Sometimes, though, he suspects the fault might lie with Scorpius.

**Notes:** Originally written for last year's kink_bigbang on LJ. I chose first times, voyeurism and exhibitionism as my kinks. The title is a pun on the Nile/denial; it doesn't actually have anything to do with Egypt, for those who may have been confused about that. Please review :D?

* * *

Albus Severus Potter doesn't know it, but the Sorting Hat is to blame for a significant portion of his life. It's a large source of worry from the moment that he realises at the age of six, when Teddy comes home for the holidays, that there is a Family Legacy he has to fulfill. Generations of Weasleys and Potters alike have filled the dormitory beds in Gryffindor Tower, and for Albus to be the first to _break_-no, to _violate_ the tradition . . . well, the thought sends his little heart thudding against his ribcage in anxiety, no matter what his father says. The Hat likes to Sort families into the same Houses; Albus rather thinks that the capital letters spell out his doom. Not that there's anything wrong with Gryffindor, it's just that he thinks he fits Gryffindor about as well as he fits Slytherin (and he just _knows_ that it's not irrational to fear that the Hat might send him there). And so he secretly frets, and worries, until Professor McGonagall calls his name, and the oversized hat slips down over his forehead to rest atop his glasses.

_Slytherin__?_ the Hat scoffs. _Don't be ridiculous. Of course you aren't going there, wouldn't last a day, would you. It has to be-_ "RAVENCLAW."

He stands up shakily, nearly drops the Sorting Hat as he hands it back to McGonagall, and walks, weak-kneed with relief, to the Ravenclaw table, smiling when James claps him on the back as he passes the Gryffindor table (followed by a loving, "Prepare to lose the House Cup, we're going to grind you into the dust.").

The nearest seat is next to a pale, thin boy with a pointy nose and a pointy chin, and although Albus wants to take a different seat, he knows there would be _talk_, and he doesn't want to start off the year on a bad foot, not when his dad specifically told them not to blame their classmates for their parents' crimes.

"Hello," he says, offering a timid smile as he sits down, feeling awkward and shy, because it's obvious that those nearby are paying rapt attention.

"Good evening," the boy replies a bit stiffly, a bit formally, his eyes darting to the side, towards Albus, and back to his empty plate.

Albus' smile grows wider, because he can tell that the other boy is nervous as well. "I got a package of Bertie Botts' on the train—reckon I got a _sewage_-flavored one."

"That's . . . disgusting," Scorpius murmurs, but his eyes seem to lighten in amusement, becoming even paler. The idle question of whether he could turn so pale that he'd become colourless, or invisible passes through Albus' mind, and is just as quickly gone, like the silver flash of a fish beneath the water's surface.

"You have pretty eyes." The words seem to come out of his mouth before he can even think them, and they both stare at each other, the aforementioned eyes wide with surprise while horror nauseatingly churns in Albus' stomach. Combined with the flushed heat of his cheeks, he wonders if he could escape from dinner and hide in the Infirmary for the rest of his life. "I mean—they—I've never seen grey eyes before."

"It's alright," Scorpius replies, years of etiquette training reflexively taking over. "Yours are nice too. My mum has green, but they have more gold in them, closer to hazel."

"Oh."

"Yes."

It's not the most stimulating or captivating conversation, but Albus supposes that it counts as one, so he offers Scorpius another timid smile, then is distracted by Rose triumphantly sitting down on his other side and exclaiming, "Dad is going to disown me, but I don't care, because Ravenclaw is going to win the House Cup for the next seven years, and _you're_ going to help make sure it happens."

It's hardly the start of a beautiful friendship (it's by far the most awkward twenty-or-so seconds of discourse Albus can ever remember having, actually, one that makes him cringe whenever he remembers it for the rest of the year and well into the next), or even a particularly close one.

He doesn't know that Scorpius Malfoy doesn't ever forget that the first real smile he sees at Hogwarts comes from Albus Severus Potter.

* * *

Life at Hogwarts is mind-numbingly dull next to the stories of their parents' years (only broken up by the unexpected announcement that Albus is to expect a new sister, Dora Molly). Quidditch is the centre of the social world, so of course Albus tries out for the team, and finds himself one of nearly a dozen or so Second Years (in addition to the older students) trying out for three open places.

With a former professional Quidditch player for a mother, and over half his family being Quidditch-obsessed, Albus could hardly have escaped growing up without an extensive knowledge and enthusiasm for the sport. But family games, and the family Bludgers, are quite different from the cutthroat competitive spirit and the Insanely Aggressive (or was that Aggressively Insane?) Bludgers that break Jeremy Gorfry's left arm.

"Potter!" Dennis Campbell, the Captain, barks. "You're up next."

The tall Sixth Year looks him over, and Albus tries not to shrink into himself. "Sure you don't want to try for Seeker? You're slight enough."

"No," Albus replies firmly. "Chaser." It's bad enough that he's got his father's hair and his father's eyes and his father's glasses and his father's (lack of, at least so far) height (and bad enough that Professor McGonagall has called him "Harry" _three times_ instead of "Mr. Potter").

"Good luck," Scorpius whispers, then freezes, as though startled by his own words.

"Thanks." He kicks off the ground with a brilliant smile aimed in Scorpius' general direction, fear of the Bludgers temporarily forgotten.

Unfortunately (though not unexpectedly), the Chaser position goes to a Fifth Year, but Scorpius makes Beater.

("_Beater?_" he asks Scorpius years later, when they're brushing their teeth, and it comes out as "Ee-ah," but by this time, Scorpius has learnt to be fluent in Toothbrush Speak.

"It was the only position open," Scorpius shrugs. "And it's socially advantageous to be on the Quidditch team."

Albus spits and eyes the other boy. "But you were just as small as _me_. Are you _sure_ you weren't meant to be in Slytherin?"

"I presented a case for Ravenclaw to the Hat."

"…"

"Jo~king~," Scorpius laughs softly, flicking the bridge of Albus' glasses to push them back into place. "Or am I?")

Between jokes of how they're going to hold him down and stuff his face (complete with Rose outlining a fast but healthy weight-gain-via-muscle plan—"We're going to _win_, and you're not going to be the weak link—are you _listening_, Malfoy?")—and congratulatory slaps to the back that leave Scorpius feeling rather sore, he manages to run into a beaming Albus.

"Congratulations," the dark-haired boy says.

"I'm sorry you didn't get in."

The words hang between them, a thin curtain of wistfulness and regret, and just when Scorpius begins to fidget, the corners of Albus' lips turn up.

"Don't be—I'm not quite brave enough for Quidditch that's _that_ competitive. You're mad to want the position that has you playing with _those_ Bludgers."

They chuckle. Dennis half-stumbles into, half-leans on Scorpius, and the moment is broken.

* * *

It's their Third Year when the fragile bud of friendship finally blooms. A prank by Lorcan and Lysander leaves Scorpius with a broken belt, desperately trying to hold up trousers that are just a hair too big.

"I haven't had a chance to owl Father for new ones," he mutters in embarrassment, hands tightly closed about his waistband.

"The spell is so simple, though," Rose replies.

"Weasley, I know that you're not a normal girl, but some of us are rather particular about our appearance, and this simply doesn't _look_ right without a belt, at this precise level."

Albus rolls his eyes. "Merlin, just take mine."

"Then how will you hold _yours_ up—why do boys insist on buying trousers that don't sit properly on their hips?" Rose throws her hands up in exasperation.

"Here, let me get that." Albus reaches and snags the end of the long, multicoloured scarf that Rose has in her hair to keep her bushy—more bush, than curl, just like her mother, only redder—hair back.

"Albus! I was _using_ that—at least ask first!" Her hands fly to her hair.

"You've got three more tied around the strap of your messenger bag," he replies as he threads the long scarf through his belt loops.

"Maybe you should change the colour—it's a bit fruity with the pink and purple," Scorpius suggests.

"Don't you even _think_ about it—Transfiguration is your worst subject," Rose says shrilly as she unwinds another scarf.

"I don't care," Albus shrugs. "Besides," he lisps, cocking one hip and flicking his nails out, "don't you think it goes with my eyes?"

"Albie, love," Scorpius gushes in the same flamboyant voice, "Blue is so much more your colour. Pink and purple looks _much_ better on me."

"Both of you should start being politically correct before you offend someone," Rose huffs.

The two boys shrug.

"But Scorp . . . ie," Albus wrinkles his nose at the nickname, "looks so lovely in the pink tutu he ordered."

"Oi. That's going a bit far," the other boy protests, shoving him.

"You started it." Albus pushes him back.

"No, y-."

The bell rings and they exchange horrified glances. "We're late!"

There's nothing quite like detention to cement a friendship, for tongues will wag to keep a sort of parallel symmetry with the hands as the three clean the trophy case.

* * *

The advantage of having Scorpius as a best mate is that it irritates James to _no end_. Albus' parents are _so_ proud that he's put aside whatever familial differences may have existed (though Albus is no fool, and is sure that Aunt Hermione had _something_ to do with it, particularly with his mother's attitude—she'd never forgiven any of the families involved in Uncle Fred's death), and when Scorpius stays over during winter break of their Fourth Year, he treats Lily like a queen, not having the faintest idea how to act around a friend's sisters (it's a bit disgusting how besotted his sister is with him, actually).

It's rather fun seeing Uncle Ron go purple with all the things he can't say when Aunt Hermione's watching with _that_ look on her face when they go to visit Rose. Scorpius' father, when Albus stays over at Malfoy Manor, isn't nearly as ferrety as Uncle Ron has described him, mostly leaving he and Scorpius to their own devices, and perpetually looking faintly confused. (Scorpius says it's because his father never had sleepovers as a child and therefore has no idea how to host one, while Albus laughs at the thought of Draco reading an etiquette book with a chapter on hosting a proper sleepover—though this is, in fact, precisely what Draco did.)

Fourth Year is the year that Scorpius spends two weeks in the Infirmary, the result of a Potions accident coming too soon on the heels of a terrific foul-up in Quidditch, and the potion reacts with the residual healing magic in his body, to give him temporary, uncontrollable Metamorphagus powers (this mostly results in his nose drooping past his chin, and his hands spreading limply like water across the coverlet, though when he gets agitated, his skin turns yellow with green polka dots). This makes him the favourite lab specimen of a number of researchers, Professor Snape included, before all the experts and specialists agree that it's safe to treat the "poor boy."

"I'm so behind," he groans, looking at Albus' stack of notes. "And why is your writing so _neat_? It's like a girl's."

"Says the boy who won an award for Best Penmanship his First Year," Albus retorts. "And aren't you about a month ahead in the coursework? I'm only ahead by two weeks."

"Not for Astronomy," Scorpius groans. "It's impossible to get ahead in Astronomy. D'you think McGonagall would let me have a Time-Turner?"

"No," Rose says cheerfully, "But I'll let you see my notes."

Scorpius turns back to Albus. "What are you staring at?"

"I think your nose looks a bit different. Longish, more hooked, less pointy. What was it like, having temporary Metamorphagus powers?"

"Impossible, I don't know how they control it. And my nose does _not_ look different." He tries to sneakily glance at his profile in the mirror by the wall.

"Got you."

"Revenge will be so, so sweet."

* * *

Fifth Year brings awareness of sex, of sexuality, and _Girls_—for everyone, it seems, except Albus.

He supposes he can see the logic—girls are rather nice, they're soft and smell better than boys, but he doesn't really _get_ it.

_You're just a late bloomer,_ Teddy writes back in response to Albus' disjointed request for "clarification on romantic feelings towards the female species." _Your time will come_.

And it _does_ come, but probably not quite in the way that Teddy envisioned for Albus.

He's in the Muggle Studies portion of the library—one of the least occupied areas, because why read books when one could just ask their Muggle-born friends?—when he hears a low moan. There's a bit of a scuffing sound, some rushed whispers, and a low "_fuck_" that pulls him closer, wraps him in a blanket of curiosity. When Albus pulls out _Hereford or Jersey: What Kind of Cow Were __You__ Dating? One Thousand Insults for Exes_, he can see through to the aisle behind, and it's quite clear that his initial suspicion—one student bullying another—was completely off.

To the contrary, it's Scorpius against the opposite bookcase, and someone else doing _something_ to Scorpius' neck—Albus isn't sure he wants to know (though a strange twisty feeling inside him tells him he does), and he's fairly certain he would have noticed a vampire on school grounds. Their school robes hide their hands, but Scorpius _purrs_—and Albus has only heard that sound when the blond is utterly satisfied, after beating Rose or him for the top score in a class, after beating the pants off the opposing team in Quidditch, after finishing an extra large portion of strawberry shortcake on the rare occasions that it shows up for dessert. The other person pulls away—or _is_ pulled, because Albus can see Scorpius fingers tangled in brown hair that, now that he notices, is rather short, and _that's_ when he realises that it's Aramis Henry, Gryffindor's Keeper.

Maybe, he dimly thinks, as Scorpius drags Aramis' mouth to his, he should be more concerned with Scorpius beating the pants off the opposing teams literally, rather than figuratively. He backs away, just in time to see both boys freeze, their hands still moving furiously, and Albus _knows_ that gesture, has tentatively done it in the Prefect's bathroom, but there's really no privacy to be had _anywhere_ on school grounds, and he's never been desperate enough to risk getting caught.

He turns and walks quickly out of the Library, ignoring Rose as she stage-whispers questions at him.

He wishes he could get the sight of Scorpius lost in . . . _passion_ out of his head.

He wishes he could forget the moans, the sound of skin dragging over skin, the wet sound of tongues and lips, the harsh clack of teeth.

He wishes he would stop trying to stare at Scorpius' mouth when Scorpius isn't looking—it can't feel _good_, two tongues moving about around each other like worms. It would feel slimy, wouldn't it? Then again, Scorpius seemed to like it, and Albus knows that any number of his classmates feel the same, so there must be something to it. So he stares, wishing he were in on the secret.

But most of all, he really, really wishes his stomach would stop frantically twisting every time he sees two boys standing close together, wishes his heart would stay firmly in his chest instead of leaping into his throat when one of them is Scorpius.

But Scorpius has told him nothing, and Albus is determined to keep his secret. It's what friends do, after all.

* * *

In his Sixth Year, Albus intensely wishes that there was a way to get a private room, because Scorpius likes to be shirtless, and Albus doesn't like noticing how . . . _good_ Quidditch has been to Scorpius' body.

He swears that he doesn't try out for the team because of Scorpius (really). It's just a parting graduation present to James, being on the team that beats Gryffindor into the mud every game. Of course, this goal is somewhat hampered by the fact that, as Albus realises during their first game, James has the advantage of five years of being on the team, James really _is_ that brilliant at Quidditch, and he's a much, much better Chaser than Albus could ever hope to be.

So of course he uses sixteen years' worth of blackmail material, and begins telling whoever he's near—his own team mates, James, Gryffindor's team, people in the stands—until James is so distracted and so _focused_ on strangling his darling baby brother, that Ravenclaw wins—barely—by ten points.

"I never knew you were so competitive," Scorpius says in the locker room, eyes gleaming in satisfaction at the win, and Albus chokes, thinking of another time when Scorpius' eyes looked the same.

"Erm, ah, well, he's _really, really_ good, I never paid attention before, it was the only thing I could think of. He's going to _kill_ me," Albus babbles miserably.

"Almost like a Slytherin," Scorpius smirks, wrapping a towel around his waist and going to the . . . oh . . . the showers, Albus thinks faintly. The showers are group showers. But he's a guy, and they're all guys, and he doesn't like guys, so it should be okay. It's just that it's so _hard_ not saying anything to Scorpius about the secret that Albus knows.

Right.

He's relieved, later, when he hears low voices on the way to the Astronomy Tower, and one of them is definitely a girl. That is, until he passes the open door of a classroom and sees Diana Feurille sitting on the teacher's desk, her skirt rucked up to her waist, and legs wrapped around _Scorpius_, whose pants are open, blocking Albus' view, but there's no mistaking that thrusting motion. Albus never realised that it involved so much clenching and contracting of the gluteus muscles before.

_Scorpius is having intercourse with a girl_. And enjoying it, Albus realises, as the blond leans over and murmurs something in the girl's ear that makes her purr and dig her nails into Scorpius' back.

"_Harder_," she demands, voice low and husky, and Albus _runs_, away from the sound—the disgusting, wet _squelch, squelch_, and most of all, that seductive, _feminine_ voice with lust-clouded green eyes and short, dark hair.

It doesn't appear that there's a secret, after all. Unless this was a cover-up. But then why would Scorpius so . . . _obviously_, _enthusiastically_ enjoy himself? There's also the niggling worry about communicable diseases—Albus hopes that Scorpius is protecting himself. Maybe he should leave some books on Scorpius' bed—he cuts off that train of thought. Best not to think of _beds_.

Albus wonders if he's going insane. He wonders why his cheeks are red, and wonders if playing Quidditch exacerbated some heretofore unknown heart issue, because his _hurts_.

* * *

Tension grows, and isn't helped by turning the corner in a deserted hallway (Merlin, he hates those bloody moving stairs) to see Scorpius on his knees, Harry McDougal's . . . _that_ ("Cock," his mind whispers, but Albus shies from the word) sliding between his lips.

"Bleedin' 'ell, ye're too fuckin' guid et this," Harry gasps, his brogue thick ("Like his _cock_," that traitorous inner voice purrs, sounding just like Scorpius, and Albus wants to _scrub_ his brain).

Scorpius hums an agreement, looking up at Harry, and though his mouth is . . . _occupied_ ("Full," that nasty little corner corrects, "his mouth is _full_ of _cock_."), Albus _knows_ that look, that _smirk_ with the coc—_arrogant_ glint in his eye.

Harry's body tries to curl in on itself, then arches back, his skull cracking against the stone wall as his hips jerk against Scorpius' hands, and Scorpius _swallows_ . . .

Albus wonders if he's doing something wrong, because his hand has _never_ made him do that before.

* * *

Seventh Year begins with confusion, because Albus realises that he hasn't the slightest idea of what he wants to do with his life—worse, everyone else seems to know precisely what they're going to do.

"What about a teacher?" Rose suggests, as she begins making a chart to narrow down her apprenticeship choices.

"I don't know . . . maybe." He leans back against the couch in the Ravenclaw Common Room and stares at the ceiling. The idea isn't _un_appealing, but he feels mired in confusion and indecision. The couch sinks next to him as Scorpius sits down—too close, because Albus can feel the heat of his thigh. It makes his ears burn.

"Mum says that you don't need to choose something that you're going to do all your life—look at her, she changed careers. Just choose what makes you happy _now_." Rose eyes the chart critically.

"But how can I know what makes me happy?" He bursts out. "I haven't _done_ anything, I haven't _seen_ anything, and it's not as though I crave excitement and danger, but I'd like just a _little_ experience!"

"What if you joined the EWC?" Scorpius drops a brochure in his lap, and Albus jumps when the blond's fingers graze his thigh.

"European Wizarding Corps? I don't know that much about it."

"It's a volunteer programme—you go to the site of natural disasters, stabilise the magic in the area, help the Wizarding communities, tribes, whatever get back on their feet again. And if there's not been a disaster, you help the less developed areas with magic."

"Don't . . . most Wizards know how to use magic already?" He's more than a bit skeptical—sounds suspicious to him, like a cult. But Scorpius seems so excited about it . . .

"It's different, especially in the more tribal areas—theirs is more . . . nature-based, more shamanic. Their potions aren't as effective because they don't have access to our ingredients, our analytical equipment. Part of your job is to research and fine-tune their potions so that they're better. You're not going to Wizarding communities—I mean, look at Cambodia, they're bloody miserable over there, and the Wizarding community is almost like ours in terms of technology and progress, only with more defined gender roles. It's a total immersion experience. You'll come back quite worldly."

"Potions and Charms _are_ two of your best subjects, Al," Rose murmurs. "And you've never been particularly offensive unless you're trying."

"…that sounds suspiciously like an insult," Albus replies dryly. "What are you going to do, Scorpius?"

"Probably Quidditch. Make a lot of money, retire young. I like studying, but I want to be my own master. I'd never apprentice. Maybe I'll travel—I've only ever been to Europe. I'd like to see the world. And try surfing. I _really_ want to try surfing. I hear it's like standing on a wide, flat broom that you can barely control." His eyes dance in excitement.

"One of the finest minds of our generation going to waste," Rose sighs.

"Tell you what, Rosie-Posy," Scorpius ducks when Rose reaches out to smack him. "When you're a Master, I'll be your first Apprentice. If it's your research, it's bound to be interesting, and you won't be the sort to laze about and take the credit for everything your Apprentice does."

"You two should get married." Albus freezes. He doesn't know why he said it, but he did, and now it's there, and he has a feeling that there was a bit more of the sharp undertone of jealousy than he wanted. He was hoping the three of them would always be together, the perfect trio. He wishes they could stay at Hogwarts forever.

"Don't be ridiculous," Rose sniffs. "I'm not getting married before I turn twenty-five."

"And I'm not getting married, ever," Scorpius adds. "Despite whatever my father says about continuing the family line."

"What about the EWC?" Albus asks. "You seem to know so much about it."

"Ah—no—that, that was just for you," Scorpius says, getting to his feet. "I've got to go see someone. Career counselling."

"Mm-hmm." Rose eyes him, and seems amused, though Albus can't figure out what the joke is.

He begins to read the pamphlet. It's better than nothing.

* * *

It's brilliant, it's _far_ better than nothing—working with other cultures, _helping_, really helping, not twiddling his thumbs behind a desk that he got because of his name. A chance to get real _experience_, and he _has_ to get in.

"Read it again. I'm sure there are more mistakes in it," he thrusts it under Rose's face again. "It has to be _perfect_."

"I've been over it with a fine-tooth comb, every editing spell I could find, and not to mention a working pair of eyes—it's _fine_, Albus, I'm sure they'll accept you!" She shoves it back, and Albus shrieks (in a purely masculine way, of course) when the parchment crinkles a bit. "Oh, stop it, that's not even your final version."

He borrows two of the school owls to post extra copies of his application, just in case (and even labels the envelopes, just so they don't think he's trying to apply multiple times).

* * *

Scorpius on his broom continually has Albus' heart following in a similar pattern, swooping and diving between his feet and his mouth. It's as though the blond saves every reckless impulse he's ever been tempted by for Quidditch games, _throwing_ himself in the path of Bludgers to whack them in the opposite direction. He's in especially good form today, Scorpius is, because somewhere in the crowd are scouts from _three_ professional teams.

"They can't all possibly need Beaters, can they?" Rose asks, her voice partially muffled by her scarf.

"You never know—maybe not for their first string, but for second or third?" Albus shrugs. "That, and both teams are really good. Gryffindor's Keeper could go pro, Blakely could probably make third string, second if he works more on his left side, he's always been weak there, decent enough with, though. And you know Scorpius is an amazing Beater."

"Not you?"

"The family loyalty's appreciated," Albus replies dryly as she laughs. He hopes she doesn't notice that he was slow with the reply as memories of Scorpius and Gryffindor's Keeper flicker to the forefront of his mind. At least he's too nervous to get an erection. He hopes that they'll be good enough, that even if they stink, that the recruiters will see that Scorpius is obviously valuable.

"I suppose I should go find my seat. Good luck!"

They crawl into the locker room afterwards, soaked through with sweat, exhausted.

"Should have had her give us something a bit better than a sunny 'good luck,' mate," Blakely grunts as he tries to take his guards off with stiff, weak fingers.

"For being in Ravenclaw, we were remarkably unprepared," Harry Burstal, the Captain mumbles.

"I don't know how you're talking, it hurts to think, let alone speak," Albus says from his position on the floor. "Did that game really last six hours?"

Scorpius laughs weakly from the bench he's greedily sprawled across. "Chatty for that, aren't you? I want Seeker for breakfast."

Behind him, there's a hurried rustling as the Third Year Who Shan't Be Named gulps and rushes into the showers.

"Be nice, we won," Harry wags his finger at the blond.

"Barely." Scorpius reaches down to unbuckle Albus' armguards.

"Stop sulking. I want to die," Albus groans as his arms are forced to move. "Scorpius, if you haven't got everyone begging for you to join their team tomorrow morning, I'll kill you and hide the body."

"Seconded."

"Thirded."

"The teamwork brings tears to my eyes," Harry mutters dryly.

"I hear Fried Chaser is an excellent precursor to Seeker."

"You'd be more intimidating if your hair didn't look like you just sweat your way through a six-hour Quidditch game in high winds," Albus snickers as Scorpius' fingers predictably attempt to fix the tangled mess.

"I hate you."

"Whatever you say, Pretty Boy."

* * *

"_Bombs_?" Scorpius asks, sounding horrified, though his face doesn't betray him (the blank face has won more games of poker than anyone in Hogwarts other than Scorpius cares to remember-Albus is positive it's genetic, based on meeting Scorpius' father and generations of Malfoys in the family art gallery at the Manor)

"And mines-left over from the Vietnam War," Albus nods. "They've caused a lot of damage."

"_Bombs_?" Rose echoes shrilly.

"'Congratulations on getting excepted into the EWC.' Thanks, guys," Albus says dryly. "Relax, it's not as though they're not going to send me out without training."

"Until there's an earthquake, or a typhoon, or random land vibrations and your wand touches it and you go _foom_." Rose agitatedly waves her hands.

("Foom?" Scorpius raises one eyebrow.)

"The glass is going to crack-_ow_." Albus rubs his shoulder. "Be happy for me, I had to go through three different rounds of interviews and invasive medical procedures before they approved."

"How invasive?" Scorpius leers, but Albus can tell his heart isn't in it, because he still looks pinched about the eyes.

"Does Aunt Gin know yet?"

Albus winces. "I expect I'll receive a Howler in the morning."

Scorpius and Rose snort. He wonders who got it from whom—maybe they got it from him? How odd, imagining being in another country without them passing on habits and mannerisms in a cycle of similarity.

"Laos, eh?" Scorpius says quietly that night, as they sit on the couch. "It will be hot. You'll wilt like a delicate English rose."

"Takes one to know one," Albus returns, feeling mature. "You're sure that vampires don't run in the Malfoy blood? Or ice pixies?"

"Pixies?" Scorpius straightens, affronted. "Demons."

"Imps?" Albus ducks a pillow and tosses a decorative cushion in retaliation.

"Think larger, menacing, and masculine. Stop dodging!"

Albus laughs, rolling off the sofa and grabbing Scorpius' ankle so that the blond falls to the floor with a crash.

"You're not hairy enough for an abominable snow creature."

"Veela? Sirens?"

"Harboring a secret wish to be female? I always had my suspicions with your hair care regimen but—_mmf_." Albus wrestles against the pillow covering his face.

"Tap out," Scorpius laughs breathlessly, leaning over him and pushing down with his weight until Albus pats the floor with his hand.

"Prat," Albus coughs, feeling vaguely disappointed that it hadn't turned into a wrestling match. But would that be strange, two grown boys who are friends playfully rolling about on the floor? He doesn't even know why he _wants_ to, but his body feels tight with energy and a fluttery sort of tension. Scorpius doesn't appear to be the same, lying on his stomach, arms loosely clasped around the pillow that his chin is resting on as he moodily stares at the fire.

"It will be boring with you gone." Scorpius stares into the fire, eyes reflecting orange and platinum hair turning gold.

"You're just upset that Lorcan and Lysander are going to make you their new favourite victim."

"And there's that."

* * *

It's damp the morning that he leaves for Geneva, Switzerland. Fog hovers thickly about his knees, and there's a fine mist of water in the air that simply floats, as though it hasn't decided to become rain, or even drizzle, yet. He already feels nostalgic for cool, moody sunrises like this one, where the grass is a rich, muted green against blue-grey sky.

It's also damp because his grandmother won't stop weeping on his shoulder. There's a distinct wet patch on his right.

"Don't cry," he says despairingly to Ginny and Lily, who are both teary-eyed.

Dora, the youngest member of the Potter-Weasley family, smiles widely at him. "It's okay, they have me."

"Something tells me that Slytherin House had better be prepared for her in five years," he mutters under his breath to James.

His older brother snorts. "If you die, I'll raid Malfoy's house for something dark and forbidden that will bring you back long enough to get lectured by Mum and Nana until your rotting ears fall off."

"Touching," he replies dryly.

"But true," Scorpius smiles. "It wouldn't be that hard finding the right spell or apparatus. The Ministry never searched the house _that_ thoroughly, according to Father and years of successful treasure hunts."

Harry coughs politely behind them. "Er, right-o."

Albus turns. "Dad."

"Albus."

They both awkwardly fidget for a moment, until Harry clears his throat again. "You're sure the black stork's alright then? He's a big one."

"Bit late to be asking, isn't it? Mephistopheles is fine. They're native to Europe and Laos, so it shouldn't raise too many eyebrows if they spot one in England. Hopefully. Can't have an owl in that weather."

"Right." Harry nods and looks up at the sky. "I know I'm rubbish at this," he says suddenly, frankly. "I haven't gotten to say goodbye to many people. So. Take care of yourself. Come back to us safely."

"Oh, honestly Harry," Ginny slaps him lightly on the arm. "We'll be going down for a visit or two." Her tone is light, but Albus can see the same fearful worry in her eyes that he sees in his father's, and is reminded again of how different their childhoods were.

"The time!" Hermione calls frantically, and Albus finds himself struggling out of one last bone-crushing group hug to reach for the Portkey along with a handful of other Corps members. The sharp tug behind his navel makes him feel like a plant, and the yank has left his roots exposed to air.

* * *

The worst part about Laos is that the heat never relents. Even the breeze is hot, and it doesn't bring respite from the humidity. He's used to a certain level of moisture, but this . . . Some days, he thinks he'll die from suffocation, choked by oppressive heat, from too much water and not enough oxygen in the air. If there were anywhere that he'd expect fish to survive on land, it would be here.

It's slow work, finding and dismantling undetonated bombs, in the heat, with a bulletproof vest, because magic isn't enough to make one invincible, particularly if one is currently preoccupied with casting other spells. Magic really isn't a shortcut here, and is in fact more of an impediment, as he finds on his second day, when a strong seeking spell sets a mine off a kilometer north (fortunately, no one was in the vicinity).

His arms and face and legs become quite tan despite the skin protection (Muggle _and_ magic), and though it's embarrassing, having quite possibly the worst farmer's tan ever seen, Albus spends his days off shirtless in a sad attempt to even it out (still protected by layers of sunscreen and spells), tending his garden with as many magical barriers up as he can think of as he examines local potions.

It's lonely, the first sixth months. All the translation spells in the world can't bring him familiarity, and he finds himself craving the cool touch of rain on his face, grey skies, and the sun-warm stones of a castle under his cheek—until monsoon season starts, and then he wishes it all to the devil as the pages of his books become limp and wilted from the constant rain showers, and he is forced to pause in his work to help flooded villages.

He spends at least one day off a week writing letters—between Rose and his mother, he receives enough letters to account for his entire family's combined share. Scorpius doesn't write regularly, and they're usually short, unless he rants about a game. They always end with the same closing—"Wish you were here. -Scorpius"—except for the one he receives on his nineteenth birthday ("I miss you. -S.").

A few times (every so often, when the pangs of homesickness are just a little strong), he dreams of Scorpius. It would be more accurate to say that they're altered memories, flashbacks where Scorpius' hands are warm and rough, callused skin dragging over his chest, his back, his cock, his arse as they stroke and squeeze and rub and . . .

Albus dismisses it as the desire for the touch of another human, Scorpius being one of the few non-blood relations he knows the best. This society is more observant of barriers, and it's only natural, missing simple things like hugs, casual brushes and pokes and tickling. He holds his own hand in bed, and ignores the inner voice that sighs over the new level of pathetic that he's reached (it still sounds like Scorpius).

* * *

Two and a half years goes by more quickly than he thinks is possible, and when he stands in front of the oar that acts as a Portkey with five other members of the EWC, he feels as though the end isn't quite real (the feeling of an imaginary magical hook behind his navel as they travel to Switzerland doesn't help).

One day in Switzerland to finish signing a large stack of papers, to submit reports, and then he's handed a pen and dragged via Portkey to the Ministry of Magic to sign more papers and be medically examined. At six in the morning he is finally released, and he Apparates near the gate of his parents' house, exhausted and more than a little hungry. Harry is pretending to read the morning paper while standing in his pyjamas on the porch and holding a cold cup of coffee (the lack of steam in the coolness of the morning is rather telling). Ginny doesn't even bother with pretences and stares at the ground a few feet in front of her toes with folded arms and a foot that taps in the steady rhythm of impatience.

"Er," Albus says eloquently, feeling strangely shy in the presence of his own family. "I'm home?"

Harry jerks and almost spills the coffee down his front, and Ginny gasps, darting forward and wrapping him a tight hug, yelling in his ear, which brings a fully dressed James tumbling out of the house to put him in a chokehold so that he can muss Albus' hair ("Your hair is too long, better watch yourself when you sleep."). Lily flies out the door with Dora on her heels, and there's _Rose_ and Uncle Ron and Hermione and Hugo, and good heavens, even more of his family. It's chaotic, and he feels a bit lost, wondering if his family's always been this way as he's carried along by a current of loud red hair and clashing patterns on clothes.

They break off in clumps, to the kitchen, to the garage-cum-storage-area, to the bedrooms to change and freshen up. Albus continues to stand in the yard, feeling a bit useless as tables and chairs are set up.

"Going to greet me or not?" Scorpius sneers with twinkling eyes, and Albus whips his head to the side, feeling his mouth stretch in a broad, broad grin, launching himself into a hug before he realises it. He doesn't have time to feel embarrassed about the sudden show of feeling or to awkwardly pull away, because Scorpius is pounding him on the back and holding him close (in a platonic sort of masculine way, of course).

"Ow," he wheezes. "When d'you get those great lumps for hands?"

"When he started playing Quidditch professionally," Rose sniffs.

"She's just sore because the twins are on the team and harass her whenever she comes," Scorpius grins in reply, rubbing his arm where she whacks him.

"If you can honey-coat 'manhandling' as harassment," she hisses.

"What?" He feels dizzy as he's dragged to the table, his plate is heaped with food, and his ears are filled with knowledge that his mind dutifully notes down, but fails to process. A good deal of it he already knows from letters, the most shocking bit of news being that Rose had left—not finished, but _left_ her Apprenticeship, and had taken up journalism. Even more surprising was that she was reporting on Quidditch—not that she hated Quidditch, it was just that Albus expected her to be a cashier in a bookstore or ingredients shop, or a librarian sooner than he expected her to be reporting on Wizarding sports.

"It's a stepping stone. I'm hoping to be an investigative reporter, or a political correspondent—international, hopefully," Rose explains.

"She was desperate for a job in this economy and wouldn't take any money from me," Scorpius huffs, the picture of insulted indignation. "I _said_ I'd charge her interest if it bothered her that much."

"And I _told_ you I'd take you up on it if I needed it."

Albus tunes out the bickering and stares at his plate. The muffin crumbs and remnants of scrambled eggs fuzz and blur and darken. The conversation around him is a pleasant buzz. He'd missed this many people, this many authentic English accents, this much red hair. His cheek feels a bit mashed from where it's resting on his hand, but he can't bring himself to care enough to move.

"Albus?"

"Albus?"

"Shh, he's fallen asleep."

He floats on a pillow of minimal consciousness to cool sheets, ignores the tingling freshness of the cleaning spell that sweeps him from head to toe as his sandals are pulled off, and drifts deeper into sleep.

* * *

Adjusting to the time zone change is as difficult as adjusting to the weather. February in Laos and February in Godric's Hollow are worlds apart. Frankly, he's just thankful that he's not in Scotland. Had he thought it through, he would have stayed a few months longer and waited for England to warm up. He's constantly groggy and freezing, and wanders about the house in a thick sweater and sweatpants and warm socks, drinking hot tea.

Up until this point, his life had been filled with doing, doing, doing, and the work had been meaningful. He'd been able to _see_ the outcome and impact he'd had at first glance. Everything seems mundane and shallow in comparison. It's cold, too cold in England, and there's not enough sun. The gray skies that linger even when it doesn't rain are depressing, and he can't find the lovely cadet blue he so longed for when he'd been surrounded by sun and heat. He can't stop finding things to complain about, and his own whiny attitude only makes him more aggravated.

"Oh good, you've not resorted to black nail polish and eyeliner yet," Scorpius says when he comes and drags Albus out of his room by the back of his shirt. "You're far too pretty for eyeliner. We'd have to beat the lads away with a stick, though you could probably do with a shag."

"I—what? Black eyeliner?" His brain feels like pea soup, stagnant and thick and not up to friendly repartee.

"You need friends. You need to get out of the house. Ergo," Scorpius continues as he aims an undressing spell at Albus and shoves him, squawking in surprise, into the bathroom, "I'm going to take you out to meet some friends. And no muttonhead Quidditch player jokes—I have standards, which is why, if I don't hear the shower running in the next ten seconds, I will come in there and—good boy."

Albus wishes that he didn't quite so desperately want to know what the rest of the threat would have been. He also wishes that he'd thought to bring his bathrobe, because when he returns, he's sure that he's imagining Scorpius' eyes lingering on his bare torso. Maybe water droplets are distracting. His hands tighten nervously on the towel.

"I've laid out your clothes—don't argue, this is what you're wearing. You're going to look nice, you're going to score _someone_, be they male, female, or something in between, and you're going to shag this stupid mood out of your system."

"Er." He wonders if Scorpius really doesn't know that he's not keen on sex. There wasn't a lot of opportunity in Laos, but he managed, a few times, with one of the female Corps members, and he didn't seem to enjoy it nearly as much as Scorpius had seemed to. Maybe he's just rubbish at it.

"Put them on, or I Floo Lily and ask her where she keeps her spare eyeliner."

It's not that the clothes are revealing, or too tight—it's a perfectly normal pair of jeans with a t-shirt and a button down to go over it. He's certain that he's worn the outfit before. It's just the principle of the thing. He's just shy of twenty-one, he can bloody well dress himself. So he starts towards his closet.

"Turn away from the closet before I take the towel."

Albus turns around angrily. "You're a right arsehole, you know that? Where the hell do you get off treating me like a toddler?"

"Since you started moping around like you were trying to relive your middle namesake's teenage years. You've been like this for months. I stopped sympathizing and tiptoeing around you weeks ago—you've just been too out of it to notice. Now, get dressed, or I'll tell Rose you need a lecture."

"I haven't been moping," Albus mutters sullenly as he picks up the jeans, trying not to wince at his own voice. Alright, maybe he's been moping a little. February and March and April have the perfect soul-sucking weather for moping, though. It's hardly his fault. "You forgot—nevermind."

He turns to his chest of drawers for underwear, only to be stopped by Scorpius' outstretched arm.

"No, I put everything you need there."

"There's not . . ."

"Your pants are counterproductive to getting laid."

"Maybe I don't want to get laid. Maybe I want a deep and meaningful relationship." The fact that the thought of sex makes his heart jump and come down running doesn't mean anything . . . much.

"You're twenty-year-old male who's been too depressed to wank, don't try to lie."

"How do you know that? Maybe all I do is sit here and wank all day." His jeans sit lower than he remembers, and he looks at Scorpius suspiciously. Scorpius doesn't appear to notice, but then, that just makes him more suspicious.

"The hamper and rubbish bin are far too empty for that."

"You know, most people have this thing called personal space."

"Utterly pointless, doesn't give you any leverage. Button your shirt, you look like an American."

"I'm not wearing contacts. The smoke and alcohol will dry my eyes out." Albus heads off the old quarrel.

"You're cute with them," Scorpius shrugs. "But—here." He shoves his fingers into Albus' hair and ruffles it, following it up with a quick drying spell. "Dishevelled scholar look. Everyone will be hard and dripping for you."

"I think you mean hard _or_ dripping," Albus corrects him, sticking his nose in the air and exaggeratedly swaying his hips as he walks to the door.

"Everyone has nipples, they get hard. Or did you not sample the local wares in Laos? God, if it's been that long, no wonder you're out of sorts. Stop trying to tempt me." Albus jumps when Scorpius' hand smacks his bum sharply—that is, until he takes another step and feels how tight his jeans have now become.

"Buggerall, you just shrank them, didn't you?" Revenge will _definitely_ be his.

* * *

There's four men crowded into a large booth when they get to the small pub, one that Albus recognises as Muggle-friendly, though the Muggles that come usually have magical relatives. The Scamander twins are there, and two men that Albus doesn't know, though he thinks he recognises one as being a few years ahead of them back in Hogwarts.

"Finally emerged out of your lair? In need of a tender neck to suck on?" Lorcan leers, or maybe it's Lysander. They've lost some of the baby fat from their faces, and not seeing them for two years has dulled his ability to tell them apart.

"You don't know which one he is, do you?" The other one grins.

"Told you he wouldn't be able to. Ah, and he used to be so good at it."

"Drink up, Sev, I hear alcohol makes it easier, and you're far too sober. There's a minimum drink requirement here. Yours is three."

Albus groans. "Stop calling me Sev."

"No, it's totally fitting. I've been expecting him to come out in black robes for days," Scorpius cackles. "You have to earn the name Albus back."

"I'll just go find something purple and sparkly and start sucking on hard candies, shall I?"

"I've got your hard candy right here," the twins snicker in unison, grabbing their crotches as Albus rolls his eyes and calls them predictable.

It's not as painful as he thought it would be, making small talk with strangers. Between Scorpius and the twins, all the lulls in the conversation are natural, and his awkward moments are covered up with humor. He loosens up marginally after the first beer, and the second melts into the third and fourth and shots after Scorpius borrows a deck of cards from the bartender.

"So, now that there are actually people here," Lorcan says during a lull, "what's your type?"

"My what?"

"Your type," Lysander echoes. "For your bog romance."

"Who d'you want to take off to the bog?" Scorpius translates. "Speaking of which, be back in a few."

"I. Er. Shouldn't there at least be a bed?" Albus tries to stall, though his mind is a bit sloshed, and he can't help but think of how very nice it would be to have someone's hand other than his own on his cock.

"Tsk tsk, so conservative."

"He's probably a romantic, Lys, the poor duck. No time for romance tonight," Lorcan says cheerfully. "Bet it's been a while, eh? Not sure you can make it through standing up? No worries, the sink in here is built for that."

"Anyroad, we've completely gone off topic. Your type-blonde, brunette, or bloke?"

The question is spoken lightly, but he can feel them both watching him intently.

"I, um." He looks around for inspiration, but his vision is a bit foggy and the only thing that sticks out is Scorpius' platinum hair. Scorpius is talking to someone he can't see—maybe one of the lads who left their table, though Albus is sure that he saw them leave with at least three birds in tow.

"There's no shame in liking blokes," one of the twins says, dragging his attention back.

"I never—"

"The Wizarding World has a long and respected tradition of pederasty, you know. No shame in it. Like the Greeks. And Romans. And samurai. They're just very hush-hush about it, like everything else. Discretion in all things, et cetera, et cetera. S'what you get for having so many Slytherin purebloods."

"_You_ were in Slytherin," Albus points out.

"Exactly. It's why we get on so well with Scorpius."

"But he was a Ravenclaw."

"Which brings us back to the main point: did you or did you not enjoy sharing a dorm with Scorpius?"

Albus closes his eyes against the dizzying conversational path. "He's my best mate, 'course I did."

"And you _never_ took a second look at him in the altogether?"

"In—what—we played Quidditch together, these things can't be helped," Albus blusters, feeling his face heat.

"You're not the worst of liars, but you're absolute rubbish when you're three sheets."

"I bet he forgot that."

"He probably did. Probably hasn't had to lie for a while, poor soul."

"_He_ is right here," Albus mutters. "And he doesn't like Scorpius, not like that."

"Hm." The twins shrug off the latter statement before exchanging sly glances. "But it's still blokes, innit?"

"How would I know? I've nev—" He remembers to shut his mouth just a little too late, and he's sure that the twins had been aiming the conversation in this direction, because they look at him, mirror image smirks tugging at the corners of their lips.

"Would you like to find out?"

Sometimes, Albus knows, the only way to extricate one's self from a situation is to do so literally—particularly when the twins get like this. So he mumbles an excuse and pushes through the crowd in the general direction of the loo, and is treated to seeing Scorpius in full alpha-male-seduction mode, or whatever ridiculous name the leaning and hovering and posturing deserves. It's a bird of course—they're not in a gay pub, after all. She's a slim brunette who isn't all that short, but appears to be from the way her body curves and melts the more Scorpius leans (not that he has far to lean, as he isn't all that tall).

Albus has a perfect view of Scorpius speaking into her ear, of his lips brushing the shell, tongue flicking along the rim, hummingbird-quick, and he doesn't know why he feels suddenly light-headed, more drunk than he felt ten minutes ago. Perhaps it's the walking. It's not like he wishes that _he_ were the one doing it to the girl. She's cute enough, he supposes, but . . . eh. Less than thrilling memories of sex have a way of killing the desire for further exploration. He's bad enough at it sober; Albus really can't imagines that alcohol improves his performance.

And yet he's still standing, still watching the way Scorpius rests one hand—the hand that isn't resting against the wall, just over her head (Alpha Pose Number Sixty-Four, Albus labels it)—on her hip, fingers slowly, slyly stroking their way just under the hem of her shirt. Scorpius' hands are hot, Albus knows, and there are calluses on each segment of his finger as well as the fleshy bit on his palm at the base of each, all from riding brooms without gloves on. Scorpius' hands are rough—he always swears when they catch on the silk and cashmere clothing he wears. Albus imagines that they'll catch and drag along the soft skin just above the girl's hip, enough to make her shiver and wonder what they'd feel like elsewhere. His arms break out in goosebumps.

Scorpius murmurs something again, presses closer, and kisses the woman just beneath her ear. It's the most disconcerting thing, for as Albus watches, he can almost feel damp heat on his neck, the lazy swirl of a tongue followed by the scrape of teeth, and he knows the redness in his cheeks is not entirely because of the alcohol. He weaves a bit on his feet, and is steadied by a hand beneath his elbow.

"Alright there, mate?"

"Um." It's a man, smiling kindly at him, with reddish hair and brown eyes. He reminds Albus of a golden retriever.

"He's with us." Albus finds himself flanked by the twins, and well, this isn't awkward or embarrassing _at all_, especially not when Scorpius sees them and strides over (Alpha Strut Number Three). But at least it gets him away from the bird. He didn't mean to think that, _why_ did he think that?

"Sorry," he apologises to the man, feeling guilty when those brown eyes look disappointed, just like a dog's.

_But at least it gets him away from the bird?_ Scorpius is right, he's not getting out enough if he's becoming that possessive of his friends.

* * *

"I've had it," his mother says when she storms into the room the next morning and flings the curtains open. "Get up, get showered, get dressed, and then go find a job. I don't care if it's at a Muggle coffee shop, it's time for you to get out of the house."

"I—wha—s'early _Mum_," Albus whines, slurring most of his words together and pulling the covers over his head.

"And it's also time you moved out. We'll pay for the first few months' rent if necessary, but, _Albus_," Ginny jerks the covers down, "you really can't carry on like this. If you need help, we'll go find someone you can talk to. But I think that getting out—have you been drinking?"

"Went out with Scorpius and the twins," Albus offers, groping for his glasses, cringing in expectation of the scolding he's about to receive.

"That's _wonderful_," his mother beams, and Albus blinks (not only because she isn't in focus). "I'm so happy for you. Did you have fun?"

"Er, yeah, I s'pose," he replies warily.

"Well then. Be sure to thank them for having such a lovely time—"

"_Mum_!"

"—and I was serious about finding a job and a flat. Starting today."

And with that, Ginny merrily skips out.

Albus Apparates into Gloucester. It's the nearest city, and he knows the area, at least. Finding a flat, he reasons, must be easier than finding a job. At least he knows what he wants in a flat (and if it isn't there, he can always find a way to procure it). He's stopped by the appearance of Mephistopheles, who flies down and stands, glaring at him with a note in his beak.

_I forgot to give you my 'cell' number. So much more convenient, aren't they? What are you up to? –S._

Scorpius owns a cell phone. Albus blinks. He knows how they work—Aunt Hermione had explained them ages ago, but he'd never really needed one before. Scorpius was right, they _were_ convenient, especially because breaking out paper and pencil to scribble a note and hand it to a large black stork in the middle of the sidewalk might be considered odd in most Muggle circles.

"Right, thanks," he says to Mephistopheles. "I, um, haven't got anything."

The glare intensifies.

"But I will definitely buy some sardines at the store and bring them back. With the heads still on."

Mephistopheles looks appeased, and takes off. Albus tries to act like nothing ever happened, and Apparates to The Mall. Thirty excruciating minutes later, he is in possession of a cell phone.

"I'm in Gloucester," is the first thing he says to Scorpius.

"Why the hell would you go to _Gloucester_?"

"I'm looking for a flat."

"In _Gloucester_?"

"It's close to Godric's Hollow," Albus says defensively.

"Why not just commit social suicide now? Merlin's Beard, just move in with me. I've got a three bedroom and I'm the only one in it."

"Oh, but—"

"It will be just like Hogwarts, only without rules, and therefore, much better."

"But—"

Scorpius sighs loudly. "I'll even charge you rent, alright? Stop arguing and just say yes."

"Don't you live in _Paris_?"

"How could I possibly live in Paris and play for a British team? Those are the family residences—well, the ones in Paris. I've got a flat in London. _London_, where civilised people live."

Albus doesn't reply. He's trying to convince himself that this is a dream, because opportunity is supposed to knock, not fall square on its arse in front of him.

"I'll owl your mother."

"The twins have been a horrible influence on you," Albus grumbles even as he smiles.

"Brilliant! You won't need furniture, everything's already there. Just bring your clothes and yourself. Or better yet, just bring yourself. I've seen your closet. It's all two years old and terrible."

"What _do_ your teammates say about your taste for expensive hair products and high fashion?"

"Nothing, if they want to make it through the game in one piece. I'm their best Beater. Oh, break's over. I'll owl you directions and the key."

* * *

Moving in to Scorpius' flat manages to help him stall on the job front for exactly two days, and though Albus feels guilty about accepting his parents' offer to pay for the first few months, he at least recognises that without it, he wouldn't be nearly as motivated to start hunting.

After much looking, he manages to find a job with the EWC. It's not a brilliant executive position—not that he expected one. He works as a case manager, acting as a liaison between the administration and workers out in the field. He gets a secretary though (a young man-British-named Preston, who seems overly concerned with how Albus takes his coffee and tea, and whether he needs anything), and a tiny little office crammed into the corner at the end of a hall.

The job is uneventful, and more than a bit dull. Half of his volunteers are prone to excessive whining. For a moment (or several moments scattered throughout his first two weeks), Albus wildly considers joining Uncle Charlie in Romania, despite the fact that he doesn't even _care_ about dragons that much.

"There's always research," Scorpius yawns as he pours himself a drink. "You were doing a bit of that on the job in Laos, weren't you?"

Albus grunts dismissively and shrugs his shoulders. "Fine pair of Ravenclaws we turned out to be. You're a Quidditch player, and I'm a boring white collar sod."

"Not a sod. Just a pencil pusher," Scorpius says cheerfully. "Besides, my retirement is up in ten years or less. There's plenty of time for research after that. And don't forget, Rose is a sports journalist. That's _three_ fine Ravenclaws, thanks much."

It's really not much of a consolation, not with Scorpius pushing sex as the ultimate fulfilling distraction while Albus tries to pretend that he doesn't wank off to old memories and newer ones. He needs a hobby-or pornography.

* * *

He knows what the meaning of a charmed life is. Everything has fallen together so _cleanly_, and really, he should have anticipated this. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but a lack of foresight this blind is just embarrassing. Maybe it had occurred to him subconsciously, as his initial reluctance behind accepting Scorpius' offer. But time passes, and of course Albus forgets.

Scorpius' schedule as a professional Quidditch player is irregular, and therefore differs from his quite a bit on occasion, so it's normal for Scorpius to go out without him. Given what a large _appetite_ Scorpius has, Albus should have expected Scorpius to bring home a one-night stand ages ago.

It's a thud that jerks him from his half-doze. At first, he thinks Scorpius has tripped over the slight step between the hallway and their flat (they've both done it enough sober, to say nothing of being drunk). But then there's a soft laugh, and voices, and then a pause. Curious, Albus sits up in bed, only to freeze when he hears a low moan. His face flushes, and he's afraid to breathe, let alone move, even though he's in his bedroom with the door closed, because god, wouldn't it be embarrassing for them to realise that he was awake? Embarrassing for all parties, but especially for him. He's embarrassed _now_.

He can hear Scorpius' low murmur, the shuffle of socked feet on the hardwood floor as they make their way to Scorpius' bedroom, and Albus _knew_ he should have taken the bedroom further down the hall, not the one that shared a wall with Scorpius'. More quiet speaking, broken by brief moments of silence, and if he strains hard enough, Albus _thinks_ he can hear the soft sound of kissing, of sucking, and he imagines Scorpius leaning over her—him—the person, playing vampire against their neck.

A moan, a _low_ moan, in a voice that couldn't possibly be a woman's, and Albus feels as though ice water has been poured over him, but just for a second, because his blood rushes to the surface of his skin to warm him up, and now he feels like he's on fire and he just knows that if he turned on the lights, his entire body would be blushing. It's a man, Scorpius and a man, and he'd half-forgotten, seeing Scorpius proposition women, disappear into bathrooms, _finger_ them on dance floors in the particularly sleazy clubs, that Scorpius liked men.

All the sounds behind him on the other side of the wall seem exceptionally loud. The creak of the mattress, Scorpius speaking more, in that husky seductive voice that Albus is sure-from the cadence, from the rise and dips in pitch-that he's talking dirty, just like the twins like to do to him when he's drunk, talking about sex and masturbation, and what feels good, what's _brilliant_, what they'd do if he ever wanted to 'try it out.'

Wet sounds are barely discernible beneath Scorpius' voice, and Albus feels his face grow warmer at the realization that the stranger is sucking Scorpius off. He imagines being on his knees, or maybe leaning over Scorpius as the blond reclines against the pillows, fingers twisting in his hair as he bobs up and down—Albus gasps as his hand involuntarily squeezes his cock through his pajama pants. Fuck. He's hard, achingly hard, and he'd been so engrossed in _eavesdropping_ that he hadn't realised. His hands, his hands are completely out of his control, because his left is sliding into his pants, fingers carding through his pubic hair as his right fumbles in the bedside drawer.

There's a click, muffled but still noticeable in a moment of silence, and Albus knows it's lubricant, just like the tube he's pulled out. He wonders if Scorpius is on top or on bottom. No matter which position, he's sure that Scorpius would be the one in control, which is good, because he doesn't, wouldn't know what he's doing. He imagines Scorpius leaning, taking the stranger's cock into his mouth as he slides one finger, and later two inside him. It's quiet now, just the faint, possibly imagined sounds of wetness. His fingers shake when he opens his own small tube of lubricant, and his ears hurt, they must be glowing from the embarrassment. He's never—but the twins make it sound _so_—and.

His breath pushes through his teeth in a hiss, and he forces himself to relax, tense with nervousness as one finger traces over his entrance. There's no way in hell this can feel good. The twins are complete fakers. A sharp gasp, almost like a sob comes from behind him, one that begs _please_, and he's _sure_ that's not Scorpius. It must be teasing then, fingers inside the man, crooking against that spot—the—the prostate, Albus thinks, wondering why his pillow hasn't burst into flames from his face being so _hot_, and he bites his lip as one finger slowly presses inside. It's odd, a weird sort of stretch, vaguely uncomfortable, but mostly because it feels so out of place.

Another groan, louder, and a wet ripping sound that must be nails dragging along Scorpius' sheets, the silk ones. A planned one-night stand, then.

"Fuck, just—" is what Albus hears, and a gentle _shh_ that leads to another _please_. He strokes his cock, thinks of Scorpius hovering over him, strands of hair tickling his face as he slips another finger inside, thrusting slowly, gently, and there's gentle pressure upwards—

Lighting streaks up his spine, bending it backwards, his mouth is open in a silent scream, and he only avoids coming because his other hand is in a stranglehold around the base of his dick.

_Fuck_, he says in his head, feels himself mouth the word, but his vocal cords have been fried to a crisp by electricity.

The creaking starts, not loud, just the vague rhythmical shifting of the mattress, and Albus would laugh if he weren't imagining Scorpius thrusting into him. He can't match the rhythm and press against the magical spot of fucking wonder at the same time—it's too awkward. Fuck, this is just inconvenient. Albus bites his tongue against a whine.

They're growing louder now, enough that he can hear the smack of skin against skin, and he feels the back of his thighs burn for that contact, for the sting and stick and peel. His hips are moving faster, up into his fist, rocking back down against his fingers, and it's getting harder to remember to keep them curled so they press hard against that spot, but it's okay, because it's fucking brilliant anyway. He can _feel_ Scorpius panting against his sweaty throat, reaching down and jerking him off, broom-callused hands dragging against his skin, and it's all so hot, and he wants, he _wants_-

The sudden cessation of noise in the next room doesn't quite register, but he can _imagine_—and oh, he'd never realised his imagination could be so vivid—Scorpius freezing above him, neck tense with his tendons sticking out against his skin, fingers rough and tight around his cock. Albus comes, gasping and shaking, fingers pressed hard against his prostate.

He needs to get up, or at least turn and reach over for some tissues, but his legs and arms feel a bit twitchy, and his muscles feel strangely contracted and yet loose, completely out of his control. The fingers of one hand are tacky with drying lubricant, and, heavens, that was adventurous. He can hardly believe that he actually did . . . _that_. The little voice in his head that always sounds like Scorpius laughs, throaty and smooth against his ears.

"Fingered yourself. You _fucked_ yourself with your _fingers_ and you did it while listening in (you dirty slut). And you'd do it again."

There's nothing quite like realizing what a morally grey (or reprehensible) act one has done to completely destroy a nice afterglow.

God, Merlin, _bloody buggering hell_, he'd wanked. He'd wanked over his _best mate_ having sex, and if that weren't already somewhat shady enough, it had been with a man, and that was—oh, that was _gay_—homosexual—fuck, whatever the politically correct term was. It was a man, and he'd wanted to _be_ that man, and he was attracted to men, completely, utterly _gay_, always had been, and _how_ could it have taken him this long to realise it?

More than that—more than being gay—he wanted Scorpius, _has_ wanted Scorpius, for ages even, and—just. Fuck.

* * *

He's sure that the twins have suspected for ages, and he doesn't know how or why, unless they caught him watching Scorpius in Hogwarts, and he barely knows how to act around anyone now. ("Dirty secrets are best when shared," his inner Scorpius whispers. "Besides, don't you want to be fucked?" Except he already is, and not in the best way.)

"He's sort of adorable, your secretary," Scorpius randomly says one evening when they're quietly watching football on the telly, not long after The Epiphany That Albus Shan't Ever Name.

"You cannot seduce my secretary," Albus replies, struggling to keep his voice as deadpan as possible. "I have to work with him."

"Who said anything about seducing? I was simply observing that your secretary, who happens to be young and single, is attractive."

"I _know_ you, and if you're really going to try to convince me that the person you brought home few nights ago was a wom—how d'you know he's single?"

"Might have popped in for you at lunch a few times, but you were out. You want another beer?" Scorpius goes into the kitchen.

"No, I'm fine. And how many is a _few_? God, you've already had him, haven't you?" That little twinge in his side, Albus is sure that that's jealousy, as much as he wishes that it were some sort of muscular spasm.

The studied innocence on Scorpius' face makes Albus' stomach bottom out in equal parts despair and horror (at himself, for being jealous) before Scorpius bursts into laughter.

"He's got a bit of a thing for you. And when I say 'bit of a thing' I mean enormous. He's not interested in me at all except as a source of information."

"But that's so—I mean—I'm his boss!" Relief—sweet, sweet relief.

"Isn't it interesting," Scorpius says nonchalantly as he walks back, bottle of beer in hand, "that _that's_ the first thing that comes to your mind? Not," he continues as he stands in front of Albus and looks down, "'But he's a man,' or 'I'm straight,' but that you're his boss?"

His heart stops, for just the slightest pause, but it's enough that he feels the pulse jump in his throat, and Albus is sure that Scorpius saw it too.

"Well. I mean. I am. His boss. It's inappropriate."

"And if he weren't your secretary? If he were just a bloke you met in a pub, or getting a coffee?"

The blood rushing to his cheeks and ears is hot. It drains just as quickly, but his skin still feels tight and hot, and Albus wonders what sort of colour he is.

"I. I'm not. I mean. Well. You know I've never—and I wouldn't—a _pub_. Just—I don't know?"

"Hmm. Is that so?" Scorpius leans down. "I also find it interesting, excessively so, that you were fully aware that my partner of choice the other night was male, and yet you seem entirely unsurprised by it."

"I—" His mouth is dry, and he swallows, before jumping up. "Oh, look at the time, I promised to meet Rose for afternoon tea. Catch you later."

He might be a poor example of a post-graduation Ravenclaw, but there's a bloody good reason he wasn't sorted into Gryffindor.

* * *

The twins are devious, evil people, which is probably why they were in Slytherin. Albus is totally pissed, can barely stand without listing to one side, and he feels fucking fan_tas_tic.

"_Love_ you," he slurs at one of them as they hand him a glass of water. "D'you know that there are _four_ of you?"

"Pity, five's a crowd," Lysander laughs, wincing at Lorcan. "Please tell me Scorpius is still on the far side of the club."

"I," Albus pushes up his glasses and leans forward, not noticing that Lorcan is the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor, "am so pished. Absholutely shit-faced."

"Good that you know it, mate. You were quite the cheap date tonight."

"Din't have lunch, no time, bloody fucking _volunteers_ and their _crises_. Lemme tell you, s'not a fucking _crisis_ if there'sh no water. Flood's a crisis. An' we came straight here. No supper, either," Albus grins widely. His smile feels like it's about to slip straight off his face. "Sooooo pished."

"Good grief, did you have him snort his drinks?" Scorpius raises one eyebrow. "I swear he was barely tipsy when I left."

"_Scorpius_," Albus grabs him by the lapels on his blazer. "I am so _gay._"

There's a moment of silence at the tiny little table, and Albus blinks.

"And drunk. I'm very very veryvery veryveryvery drink. Or drunk," he hiccups.

"Go back to the bit about being gay," Lysander suggests.

"So gay, never liked women, sex was horrid," Albus replies. There's a reason that he's not supposed to be talking about this, but he loves the twins and Scorpius, they have such great fun together, and they're the best mates he could ever have, even if the twins sometimes become quadruplets and they're evil teases from Slytherin.

"But we only do it because you're so much fun to tease."

Albus gasps. "Leglimency is not nice."

"Then don't think out loud." Scorpius rolls his eyes.

"We _definitely_ have to go to Old Compton next weekend," Lorcan says.

They pour Albus back into his chair, and he looks up curiously. "What's there?"

"The end of your celibacy," the twins leer.

"No. We are not taking him to Old Compton, I'm taking him home as soon as he finishes that water, and . . . yeah, that's what I'll do," Scorpius says, raking fingers through his hair.

"Hogging him all for yourself, are you? Friends share."

"I share a flat with Scorpius," Albus says helpfully.

"Yeah, which is where we are going, right now."

Half of it's walking, and half is being dragged by Scorpius, as Albus stumbles towards the exit.

"How are you so incredibly pissed? I don't think I've ever seen you this pissed in my life."

"Mealtimes escaped me. 'Cept breakfast. Breakfast was _lovely_." It had been almond croissants, at the little French place on the corner, and his latte had been _brilliant_. His mouth waters. "Want an almond croissant."

"Hmm. And how long have you known that I'm bisexual?"

"_Forever_," Albus gushes. "Saw you Fifth Year making out with whatshisname the Keeper."

"Ah."

"And the other whatshisname. Oh. And a girl. And a few more blokes. Sixth Year, Seventh Year, and didn't tell anyone, 'cos we're best mates and that's what best mates do, mm-hmm."

"I . . . see," Scorpius murmurs, voice coming out a bit funny-sounding, so Albus grins. The streetlights are blurry slashes of brightness across his vision as he teeters from side to side.

"It's so funny, Scorp . . . yus. You were doing doing doing, sowing wild oats and making hay while the sun shines, and I had no idea, I just wanted to know, y'know, and then _BOOM_." He waves his arms wildly. "Epiphanies are bloody _brilliant_, yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Okay. Stop. We're going to Apparate. Or rather, I'm going to Apparate, and you are going to make sure that you don't throw up."

"Won't throw up." They flash into the flat, and Albus closes his eyes. "S'long as I get Anti-Nausea Potion. _Now._"

He crawls into bed with assistance from Scorpius (particularly in the shoe-removal area), and falls asleep with the vague notion that something's gone pear-shaped and it might, _perhaps_ be his fault, but his bed is so lovely and comfortable and he feels all float-y on it, and really, these sorts of things can wait for the morning.

* * *

It's hard to avoid one's Quidditch player flatmate in the offseason. Albus wonders how odd it would be if he exited the flat by his window and flew to work until he finds a new place. He's always been good at Disillusioning himself.

"Bugger shit fuck all," he mutters. He can't believe he told them _everything_. Or, almost everything. At least he kept the wanking to himself.

"You might as well come out. I've got lattés and croissants and a Sticking Charm on the window. And you'll need to shower eventually."

"I could counter it," Albus squints through his headache.

"Not hungover. And please, give me credit for improving upon the original. That's a Scorpius-custom-designed Sticking Charm."

"And he plays Quidditch for a living," Albus mutters, rolling his eyes and opening his door.

"Oh for the love of—if you're going to be a stereotype, at least be a happier one, or I'll charm your walls Hufflepuff yellow. Your life isn't over because you stumbled out of the closet," Scorpius eyes Albus' hair critically, "literally."

"A regular comedian, you are."

"At any rate, obviously, I'm hardly going to judge you, since I happen to prefer blokes over birds. Lor and Lys are equally genderblind, and they know how to keep a secret (though of course they'll torment you with it until you stop reacting, which won't be for a while, knowing you). I'd hope that you'd know I'm trustworthy after all these years, so I fail to see the reason behind the turtle impersonation."

Albus relaxes as Scorpius takes a bite of his croissant and chews, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"I understand why you weren't surprised last week, though. Of course, there _is_ the question of how often you were watching me get my jollies in Hogwarts, because you seem to have _observed_ them all."

His shoulders creep towards his ears, drawn up by the tension. Being a turtle sounds lovely, Albus thinks. Maybe he should look into becoming an Animagus; he's _sure_ that he'd be a turtle.

"And then one might wonder," Scorpius looks at Albus, light glinting off his eyes as they move, "precisely _how long_ you decided to observe each of these encounters. Because I can imagine, being a Ravenclaw, and an inexperienced one at that, the curiosity might have been _quite compelling._"

Albus gulps and decides that a tactical retreat towards the office is in order, so he flees, latté and croissant in tow and ignore Scorpius pouting at his cup.

"Didn't even get to ask how long he listened to us have sex last week."

Albus pretends not to hear it.

* * *

It's like having sunglasses taken off at high noon on the brightest day of the year. Everything seems clearer, and also more painful, if only because he's used to being one of the intelligent ones. He had liked to think that he was too intelligent, too practical to fool himself. "Difficult" problems were ones that he couldn't solve blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back.

He isn't sure what to call it, this attraction he's had to Scorpius for years. It's all tangled up with how much he _likes_ Scorpius—as a friend, because, no matter how snarky they get, and no matter what pranks they pull on one another, Scorpius is a brilliant friend. But there's lust, always simmering in the back of his mind, occasionally disrupting his train of thought as he admires strong hands, toned thighs, perfect lips. They fit well together, in terms of personality and, well, just about everything, and he can't imagine _not_ being friends with Scorpius. But this 'like' gets all pulled and twisted by the lust and as much as romantic feelings would bollocks this up further, Albus is afraid that, despite his best efforts at denial (really, they were quite good, he's almost proud of himself), he's completely gone on his manwhore slut of a best friend.

The problem is that he doesn't know how to _act_ around Scorpius now that Scorpius knows—well, knows that he's gay with a penchant for voyeurism—now that _Albus_ has realised it. He _supposes_ that nothing has to change, but that seems so wrong when it feels as though everything has changed for him (not to mention the gut-churning embarrassment). So he avoids.

And then finally, Scorpius manages to corner him after work (literally, the corner right next to the door). The offseason is still not his friend.

"Look, this is ridiculous. I don't care that you watched me get off however many times, I'm not angry, so for Merlin's sake stop cringing like that," Scorpius snaps.

Albus blinks. "You don't think I'm a dirty pervert?"

"You absolutely are, but that's rather the point of going at it in semi-public areas. We're dirty perverts that complement each other."

Well, that's alright then, Albus thinks. However- "There is nothing _semi_ about the _Library_ and the halls," he growls.

Scorpius miraculously remembers that he has somewhere to be, and leaves. Albus feels marginally better for having gotten the last word in.

* * *

The music is so loud that it feels like it's coming from inside him even though they're still in the queue outside the club.

"What d'you think?" Lys says in his ear.

"You will _definitely_ get fucked tonight," Lorcan adds.

"What if _I_ want to be the one doing the fucking?" Albus asks, hoping that the lighting masks his blushing. He's not used to this—this openness. He's not used to _it_, period.

"Find a slutty one," Lorcan advises after exchanging a look with Lysander.

"A slutty one that asks for it up his arse," Lys adds. "Really, I mean literally asking for it."

Albus huffs, annoyed, as the bouncer waves them in, and they shed their coats, barely waiting for the coat check girl to give them the tag. They're only an _Accio_ away, after all. "You think I couldn't top?"

"Here? Not likely, not when you look like the virgin sacrifice who's run away from the altar," Lorcan mutters, but there's a lull in the music and Albus hears him.

"In other words," Lysander interrupts Albus before he can do more than open his mouth, "you look like this is your first time at a gay club, and you aren't entirely sure what to make of it, and you aren't entirely sure if you _want_ something to happen, but maybe you do—"

"And they can tell. Sort of like one of those fetish types that thinks they want a vampire to suck on whatever body part, but they're scared, so they scratch themselves a little, not knowing that the size of the cut doesn't matter one bit—blood is blood."

"Cryptic," Albus snorts and rolls his eyes, but they press further into the club, and Albus can see what they mean. It's the proverbial banquet of sea creatures, and the predators of the bunch are . . . well, the sharks are circling. Literally. And the fish are slutty cockteases. It's a bit hilarious, a bit ridiculous, a bit sexy. He likes watching them tempt each other, waiting to see who gives in to whom, to see how little they care that people watch them kiss and lick and grope on the dance floor, or against the wall in the more shadowed places. He likes watching.

Merlin help him, he's the worst sort of pervert, no matter what Scorpius says.

"If they didn't want to be watched, they wouldn't be here," Lorcan yells in his ear as he turns away in embarrassment.

The twins drag him towards the bar, and there are men dancing in cages in nothing but their pants. Colourful lights glitter and reflect off their oiled torsos, highlighting a bicep here, slashing across a well-muscled abdomen there, and Albus knows that Scorpius Would Not Approve of their being in the Muggle dance club (the _gay_ Muggle dance club). Though Albus isn't really sure whether Scorpius would disapprove because they'd gone without him, or because he'd been so against the idea of Albus going in the first place (despite lacking any rational argument to support his view).

"I don't want to have sex," he blurts out as a shot is pressed into his hand.

"Didn't think you would, mate," Lys smiles. "Just have a bit of fun, yeah?"

"Nice ones never want to lose their virginity in clubs," Lorcan says regretfully.

Unfortunately for Albus, the twins get so sloshed that they start a fight with someone who can't take the hint that Lysander is less than interested, and the three of them get kicked out before Albus musters the courage to find a bloke to exchange numbers with, let alone spit or other bodily fluids.

Scorpius is waiting when he comes home, alone and irritated that he was left out and that Albus had gone to a club.

"You're putting yourself at risk for all sorts of nasty—just, you shouldn't. Rape. Disease. Ugly blokes pawing at you. Idiocy can be contagious."

"Because you're so pristine and pure with your legions of fangirls and fanboys that you've had your jollies with?" Albus shoots back, annoyed.

"It's—you don't belong in that sort of place," Scorpius runs his hands through his hair, making it ruffled and standing at odd angles without bothering to fix or even toss his head afterward, which is how Albus knows that the blond is truly distressed.

"Nothing happened. Nothing's _going_ to happen because I lack testicular fortitude."

Scorpius looks at him. It's a bit odd to Albus, because he's looking through his bangs, almost like he's hiding behind them, and Scorpius never hides from anything. "Do you really want something to happen?"

"I'd like to at least _try_ so I can decide if I want anything." He sighs. "I'm going to bed—no, I'm going to shower, and then I'm going to bed."

"Do you really want to try?"

The air is strangely dead afterwards—not still, not the tense silence of anticipation, but dead, as though every living molecule in the room has expired from surprise. Albus blinks twice and flexes his throat to pop his ears; it feels like he's gone deaf, but he hears his feet shifting against the floorboards, and is reassured in that respect.

He steps forward—or maybe he doesn't, maybe Scorpius does, because everything seems to happen faster than he's ready for—and there are hands on his face, fingers pressing gently against his jaw. There are lips against his skin, just to the right and above his mouth, and he'd be able to see Scorpius' pores if the blond didn't have nine hundred different concoctions to shrink them down to nothing.

What feels like several minutes pass, but Albus only counts three heartbeats. "You missed," he says, wincing at the volume of his voice, which is far louder than is truly necessary.

"Some might say it's romantic. Maybe I did it intentionally. Maybe I want to kiss here next." Scorpius mutters huffily, kissing Albus on the other side of his mouth, purposely missing again.

He can feel Scorpius' lower lip just brushing against his face where skin and lips meet, and it makes his toes curl. His mouth feels naked, and almost aches with the need for contact, and he can't catch his breath.

"Don't," Albus whispers, and feels Scorpius tense. "Tease, I mean. Don't tease."

It feels like if he moves just the slightest bit, Scorpius' lips will slide down to his own, and he can almost feel the soft pressure when he tilts his head up. But Scorpius moves with him, and his lips slide down too far. A frustrated noise wells in Albus' throat before he can stop it, and he grabs, fingers tangling in blond hair and tugging just a bit, just enough to shift and _there_.

Scorpius' lips are on his.

He's kissing Scorpius.

He inhales slowly through his nose, and like the rise of a conductor's baton, his senses come to attention and follow time.

It's leisurely, not even a hint of tongue, just the firm press of lips opening and closing against his own. Soft, slightly chapped lips—Scorpius would probably not appreciate the description, but Albus likes the contrast. His own mouth trembles, from eagerness, from nerves, from holding back.

There's a whisper of pressure on his shouderblade, travelling down, echoes of its imprint lingering behind like a boat in water. _Fingers_, he thinks, _it's fingers_. But Scorpius' mouth trails down, too, across the edge of his jaw down to his neck, and the way Scorpius' teeth, his breath is so _hot_ but makes his skin shudder and crawl with chills seems so much more important.

This isn't slow at all.

Fingers become a hand that slides tantalizingly from his back around to his hips, and gently push him back.

Albus opens his mouth, but doesn't know what to say. Scorpius doesn't seem to either, because he's curiously silent, and he's not meeting Albus' eyes, which isn't encouraging.

"Sorry—for taking advantage." The blond turn and walks into his bedroom.

Well—that was—and—fuck.

* * *

It takes him the better part of two weeks to corner Scorpius. Four days of that is from Albus convincing himself that walking in on him in the shower is the only way.

"You shouldn't be sorry. I—liked it. And I wanted—to—and. You have to know that I've liked you rather a lot, for a long time, and—I think that was all of it," Albus says, exhaling the words, blurring them together, though he hopes they're still intelligible, while Scorpius stares at him, hair plastered to his head and face and water running down his nose.

"It might be nice to know how you feel," Albus mumbles after what he is sure is several minutes of silence.

Scorpius finally looks away, and Albus is a bit relieved, because he always feels just a bit less sharp when he's making eye contact with Scorpius. It's something about those grey eyes. "I think we complement each other in a lot of ways. Yes, complement—not just with, erm, the perversion, though that could be quite fun, and, well. I find you attractive. And would not be opposed to pursuing further activities with you. We obviously get along, as friends and roommates. IsupposeIlikeyou."

"That was . . . " Albus drifts off, blinking, taking off his glasses to clean them with his shirt, and putting them back on. It's all done to try to hide a smile, and ends up being quite futile. "That was by far the most awkward paragraph you've ever spoken in your entire life."

Scorpius flushes and growls under his breath-something about First Year that Albus chooses to ignore.

"It's sort of endearing," Albus continues, feeling just a bit smug about having the upper hand. "But um. Yes. Alright. I'm, uh, glad," he laughs at himself.

"Right, then."

They grin at each other and just sort of stand there, like fools.

"So. Suppose I get back to my shower, then," Scorpius declares.

"Oh. Right." Albus tells himself it's the temperature of the bathroom that makes heat crawl up his neck to his ears and forehead. "I'll just—erm."

"Or you could join me."

He's not running away, Albus tells himself. Who would run from Scorpius wearing nothing but that smirk? It's a tactical retreat. Scorpius is always an arrogant prat whenever he succeeds while he has the upper hand.

* * *

Despite their best intentions, or at least, despite Albus' best intentions, nothing happens right away. Well, stuff happens, and it's good, it's _really_ good, fucking amazing, in fact, but a month passes, and then two, and they still haven't had sex. Not that the blowjobs or handjobs get old, but Albus would like to be properly buggered some time this century, and he really thinks that the confession to Scorpius sort of used up his bravery quota for the year, and possibly next year's as well.

"Honestly, and you're asking _me_," Rose huffs at him. "Ask the twins."

"The twins will probably suggest something involving whips and chains and I don't think I'm ready for those yet. Just, meeting him for dinner, or tea somewhere next Friday, and I'll prepare something."

"You know, Albus, I can't believe I'm saying this to my cousin, but _turnabout is fair play_. That's my only suggestion. Interpret it as you will. I don't want to know any details about anything. Ever. _Please_. You've already tarnished my memories of Hogwarts with rampant exhibitions of . . . "

"Teenage hormones?"

"Yes."

He considers the expression, turns it over in his mind, and really hopes that Rose wasn't suggesting what he thinks she might have been, because that would involve courage that he's fresh out of. But Scorpius would probably find it hot, really hot, and Scorpius has always been excessively fond of things like revenge and turnabout and, oh bollocks, he'll probably do it, though he's not keen on the idea of being _watched_. But . . . thinking of Scorpius' eyes on him while he's—yeah, and, right, it might be hot.

He takes the day off to "prepare" while sending Scorpius off to spend the afternoon with Rose, though it's mostly to waste time in the futile pursuit of relaxation, and to make sure that he's showered and washed and clean—everywhere, and thank goodness he'd started practicing that charm weeks ago, because he barely has a thought to spare.

And then he waits. And waits. And grows a bit cold, so he casts a warming charm. He should probably—but he doesn't know when Scorpius and Rose will finish dinner. Shit. This is decidedly unsexy, and he really wants to pull a bathrobe on. His cell phone startles him with a text message from Rose.

_Dessert soon, he should be back in 15, turn your phone off._

Crap, the phone, he'd completely forgot, and _fuck_, Scorpius is going to be here in fifteen minutes and he's not ready, at all, physically, that is. This was a horrible idea. Why couldn't Scorpius just work his ridiculously overdone seduction tactics? Albus would gladly play along if only because it would mean that he didn't have to do all the work and—

Panicking is out of the question. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to lie against the pillows. Right, just slow and natural. He touches his lips first, traces them with the scantest, barest touch, the way Scorpius likes to draw over their shape with his fingers and tongue, and he feels ridiculous.

That little voice in his head is a godsend (the one and only time it's ever proved itself useful), because he hears Scorpius telling him what to do, and it's almost real if he closes his eyes.

"Touch your cock—no, not right away," Scorpius laughs, though it sounds more like a purr. "Slowly, with just your fingers. Yes, just like that."

He arches into his own touch, drags his fingertips towards his cockhead, pulling loose skin with them.

"_Now_ you may wrap your hand around-_slowly_, Albus," Scorpius chides, and Albus bites his lip on a protest, but obeys. "Your other hand wants something to do, I think."

His other hand wants to touch Scorpius, but that's not part of this game, so he reaches lower, rolls his balls between his fingers as he spreads his legs, and then lower still, two fingers reaching and pressing behind his sac.

"You sound lovely like that. Do you want the lube? Of course you do. You want to fuck yourself with your fingers, don't you, Albus."

It's gotten easier, one finger, and then two, though the angle is always a bit of a stretch but—he loses the rhythm, and dimly hears the Scorpius in his head talking, but he can't tell what it is over the rasp of his breath. He hears a sound that might be the door, but he can't force himself to slow down.

"Albus?" He hears from the room next to his, and belatedly realises he'd gone to his own bedroom, when they've been sharing Scorpius' bed.

"In here," he replies, feeling his heartbeat ratchet up another notch.

"I brought back some—Merlin's balls," Scorpius swears as he opens the door.

"Hope not, sounds disgusting," Albus says breathlessly, trying not to laugh.

"That's so—did you—should I be worried that you planned this with your cousin?" Scorpius asks faintly. His eyes can't seem to stay still, darting between Albus' hands and face, sparing brief glances for the rest of him.

"She doesn't know about this part, I think," Albus replies, blushing.

"This might be a bit of a stretch, but," Scorpius toes off his shoes and throws his t-shirt into the corner, "I'm guessing that you want to have sex."

"Two points to Ravenclaw," is the dry response Albus gives as he wipes his fingers on the comforter and rolls to his knees.

"Who said I wanted you to stop?"

But Scorpius doesn't seem to mind too much, because one hand curls around the back of Albus' neck while the other grabs his ass, and he drags Albus to the edge of the bed for a kiss. It's not a slow, gentle sort of kiss either, the type that Scorpius favors for foreplay. This is teeth nipping at his lower lip, scraping and sucking it into redness, this is a tongue sliding against his, and Albus barely remembers to tell his fingers to start unbuttoning Scorpius' jeans.

It's a clumsy shuffle backwards to drag Scorpius on the bed, and Albus is ready to spread his legs right there when Scorpius' fingers slide down his crack to tease his entrance—but, no. That's not the plan.

"Can I . . . I'm going to suck you off, first," Albus says, pushing Scorpius down. He supposes he should feel guilty for bypassing foreplay, but he'd like to just get to it. Foreplay can come afterwards, before seconds.

"Don't let me stop you," Scorpius murmurs, leaning back on his elbows, and Albus takes a moment to appreciate the view. It feels a bit dirty; it's embarrassing being watched while he's watching. Scorpius doesn't _look_ like a Quidditch player. He's on the lean side, and tends to look more lithe and tall in clothing than he really is. But out of clothing—out of clothing, Scorpius is to Albus what David must have been to Michaelangelo, all taut, defined muscle—not overly bulky, like some Quidditch players, especially the Beaters, but perfectly proportioned.

"Or maybe," Scorpius says with a knowing smirk, "you'd rather watch." His hand slides down his body to his cock, and Albus swallows. It's really not what he wants (he thinks). What he wants is Scorpius' cock in his mouth, but his hand looks so _good_ wrapped around his own cock—strong, not meaty, just strong, and masculine, and Scorpius has always had long fingers. He likes the contrast of Scorpius' erect cock and the rest of him. It's so ruddy in comparison, like all the pigment in his body is concentrated in his cock, in his balls, while the rest of him barely qualifies as skin-toned, protected as it is from the sun in his Quidditch uniform.

Albus finally finds his voice, and grabs Scorpius' wrist. "No."

Sometimes he wonders if spying on Scorpius shaped his sexuality, his likes, his dislikes. He remembers watching Scorpius, five years younger, on his knees and enjoying it, and Albus feels the same as he leans over and replaces Scorpius' fingers with his mouth. He likes the way the flared head parts his lips, the way the girth stretches his mouth and jaw. He likes the taste, the saltiness of human skin and the tang of the musk that is strong in his nose. When he's on his knees, not on all fours like this, he can feel the weight of Scorpius' cock on his tongue, and he likes that too. He is submissive and powerful at the same time, and the balance of power can tip either way.

Scorpius' fingers curl in his hair and tug, and the sensation wraps around Albus' cock. He can feel the muscles in Scorpius' thighs and ass contracting and releasing as he flexes his hips in minute thrusts. He toys with the idea of giving Scorpius complete control, of letting Scorpius pull his head down to meet his thrusts, of feeling Scorpius' cock full and thick in his throat as Scorpius fucks his mouth. But his balls and cock are heavy between his legs, and he wants to feel Scorpius thrusting elsewhere.

"If you want to get fucked . . . " Scorpius hints, and jerks Albus up by his hair. They're both startled by the loud moan that wells from Albus' throat, and Scorpius tumbles him backwards, summoning the lube with a spell. "We are definitely exploring that later."

"But I thought," Albus begins, but Scorpius disrupts him with two fingers and lightning crackling up his spine.

"I want to watch you. You're not the only one who likes to, you know."

He briefly debates turning over, but Scorpius adds a third finger, his other hand is tight on his hips, and even though Albus has become used to the stretch with his own fingers, which are a bit thicker, it still burns, but not unpleasantly. If anything, it seems to push his arousal higher, like the pull on his scalp when Scorpius had pulled on his hair.

"Just—would you—"

"Want me to _fuck_ you, Albus?" And it sounds startlingly just like him, just like the Scorpius inside his head, so Albus stares until Scorpius crooks his fingers, and he manages to say something garbled that is supposed to be yes, and maybe _why the fuck are you asking when your fingers are in my arse_ as well.

It goes slowly, the first press of Scorpius' cock inside him, and Albus wishes that he didn't feel quite so much like a great bloody _girl_. He wants to snap that he's not going to break, and it's not as though he's got a hymen, is it, but at the same time, he feels so full, like he's _about_ to break, like this is the outer limit, and secretly, he's glad that Scorpius is going slow.

"Hurts?" Scorpius' voice is strangled, eyes narrowed to slits as he looks at Albus.

"Disconcerting," is the distracted reply. "It's . . . weird. Be better if you could hit the prostate."

"Next time, you can deflower the gay virgin while I snark," Scorpius mutters, grabbing a pillow and shoving it beneath Albus' hips.

"Going to be in the corner grading my performance? I-_oh_."

"S'what I fucking thought," Scorpius shoots back smugly, thrusting again, and Albus doesn't even have two brain cells to rub together for a reply, and he doesn't care, it's—it's just-_fuck_-and he can't focus his vision. He sees grey eyes, a tongue wetting lips, and the pleasure _burns_, like his nerves are being flayed by whips of fire. It's hot; his thighs slip down Scorpius' waist, skin too slick with dampness, so Scorpius hoists one over his shoulder, and oh, his muscles will be sore after this, but it doesn't matter. Scorpius' lips are so absurdly soft compared to his hands, his hands that are just as rough as Albus knew they would be, sliding down his body, jerking him off; wonderful, ambidextrous Scorpius, because all he can do is hang on for the ride and—

His muscles lock, spine curved to press his hips as hard against Scorpius as he can, teeth in his bottom lip, and he shakes, gasping as his body pulses and contracts and his muscles are completely out of his control. He dimly feels Scorpius' hips stutter against his, frantically pressing as his fingers dig into Albus' hips.

They barely have the strength to roll into a more comfortable position. Scorpius ends up sprawled face-down to the side, legs tangled with Albus' as he mumbles something about definitely never having sex before a game ever, and if Albus wasn't satisfied with that performance, he can bloody well wait for two hours for Scorpius to be able to feel his own cock again. Albus snorts, and assures him that it exceeded expectations (and of course Scorpius preens like a sex god, or as much as one can when his legs are rubbery and his face is mashed into the pillow).

Albus tries to convince himself that a light nap is not proper post-deflowering etiquette, but the irritating itch of drying come on his stomach prompts him to summon a washcloth, and tingling of wandless magic in his fingers (his wand is all the way over _there_, after all), wakes him up a bit, enough to see Scorpius studying something in his hands.

"Albus," Scorpius squints at the tube he'd summoned earlier. "Is this _Muggle_ lubricant?"

"The spell is so watery, I don't like it. Doesn't last long enough. And I can't very well go into Wizarding sex shops. I look just like dad—if they don't think I'm him, then he'll hear about it from the rumor mill, and that's just . . . " Albus winces.

"That's bollocks. It's why I _always_ go into Wizarding sex shops and buy something that's absolutely ridiculous. Half of Knockturn Alley thinks that Father has a fetish for receiving enemas."

Albus really isn't certain how to respond to that, and Scorpius doesn't seem inclined to let him out of the bed.

"But you don't have to go into stores." He can almost see Scorpius' eyes narrow, even though he's not facing the blond. "What about catalogues?"

"There are so many options. I didn't—couldn't—" Heat surges up from his throat to his cheeks.

"Oh we have _so_ much to teach you."

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